In a flurry of improvisation and intuition before guests arrive, members of Shomeret Shalom—students of Rabbi Lynn Gottlieb in a lineage of Jewish revolutionary nonviolence—prepare the sanctuary of Nahalat Shalom, for our first ensemble act of radical hospitality. White tablecloths and fine silverware emerge from cabinets few knew existed. Self-organized, spontaneously-appointed teams pick fresh flowers, make mint tea, fill trays with cups of coffee and dates, set out art supplies, sweep floors, and mindfully tend the countless minutiae that somehow coalesce into the ineffable feeling that a space has been created with great love. Greeters take their places, anticipation in the air.
We are here, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, on Valentine’s Day, to host a ceremonial, interfaith Peace Meal centered on the question: “what does loving solidarity look like?” This alternative to the privatized version of Valentine’s Day sold by corporations was the fruit of relationships tended by different ones of us over years, with a few months of planning leading up to this particular event. Motivated by a vision for the kind of community tapestry that we need to be weaving in the face of fascism, the deportation of neighbors, and the techno-oligarchical forces seeking to keep us separate and isolated, we’d gone to great efforts to ensure that people who might not often be in a room together—let alone a synagogue—would feel at ease and at home.
Among the first to arrive is Mariam, a friend and member of our local Muslim-Jewish group, “Cousins & Kin,” wearing a Palestinian dress that an aunt hand-stitched for her. She’s greeted at the door in Arabic, with a cup of hot coffee and a date, and walks into the synagogue—the first she’s ever entered in her life—visibly moved by the hospitality. Some forty other guests, from an array of spiritual and cultural lineages, walk through the sanctuary doors, hand-built by Hershel, a member of our collective, each receiving a hot drink and warm welcome.
Soon, the tables are full, the room abuzz, children running, mystery afoot. Some of the guests we’d invited to speak aren’t, at the last minute, able to join. Others, who we didn’t think would be able to make it, are suddenly present. We’ve planned what we can; now it’s time to hold it loosely and be present to the surprise of what will actually unfold. I speak a few words of welcome, and hand the mic to Rabbi Lynn who invokes the spirit-rooted, justice-seeking devotion that brings us all together, and then invites us all into a simple chant of the word hineini, meaning “I am here.” The ceremony has commenced.
Recognizing protocol, Rabbi Lynn invites Grandmother Moonwalker, an Indigenous elder, to speak first. Suddenly we’re in time outside of time, honoring breath and water, and learning the astonishing story of Grandmother’s ancestors, from the Yoeme people, who, it turns out, took in Sephardic Jews fleeing the Inquisition. More than 500 years later, this is the first time she has been invited into a synagogue. She speaks of the rainbow bridge we’re forming, connecting those of us in the physical world with the spirit world. A palpable feeling of awe and connection begins to coalesce in the room—and the ceremony continues.
Christina, a younger Indigenous organizer from Taos and Jemez Pueblos, tells her story of fighting extractionism and nuclear colonialism—as well as activist burnout. She conjures the revolutionary spirit of the 1680 Pueblo Revolt—which expelled colonizers from New Mexico for a full twelve years—and speaks to the power of unlikely alliances and kinships, like the ones we are forming in the room. “I can feel my ancestors here, curious about what is going on,” she says with a smile.
For Abdur’Rauf, an Afro-Cuban Iman, it’s been more than 20 years since he entered this synagogue. Just a few days after 9/11, he and Rabbi Lynn initiated a Muslim-Jewish Peace Walk, bringing out hundreds of people to walk the 7 miles from the synagogue to the mosque in a public show of solidarity. The action moved people all across the country and world, and the two of them went on to help start Peace Walks in 22 different cities. Abdur’Rauf speaks about the forces trying to divide us and take this peace away from us, and invites us to look into our hearts and see the true nature of what it means to be human.
Mariam begins with a supplication in Arabic, quoting Moses in the Quran: “My God, uplift my heart! And untie the knot from my tongue, so that they may understand my speech.” She speaks of what solidarity means to her, the call to be there for each other through the perils of this time—and offers that “if I can’t be the person who leads us in a march in the streets, I promise to feed you afterwards.” She’s here with her sons and says: “I want my children to see all of you and to see family.”
By this point, tears are flowing in the room, and we’ve gone well beyond the time allotted for this part of the evening. We decide to break for dinner—a delicious feast prepared by local Palestinian restaurant Al Quds—before returning our attention to more stories
Sara, a member of the Afghan refugee community, speaks to the challenges and heartbreak that members of her community have faced—as promises of safety and support are revoked and young people have taken their lives. Camila, a lifelong New Mexican and public servant, speaks about protecting water and what it means to love this land. León’s heart cracks open as they speak about living between worlds, as someone who is an immigrant and trans, and what it means to be held in a container of love and acceptance. Everyone who speaks calls us to who we can become: present, loving, protectors of one another’s lives, communities, futures.
Fervent applause. More tears. There’s something about the quality of witness—or withness—in this room that seems to enable healing beyond what we can name, or perhaps even understand. Hearts turned and tuned to the pain and beauty in our midst, we charge a devotional field that makes space for grace.
Though we’re hearing about the loving solidarity that people hope to experience in the future, we all know we’re living it in the present. Making kin and breaking bread—or, rather, taboon, Palestinian pita—in a synagogue, praying in multiple languages, listening with complete attention to one another’s stories and struggles, with proceeds from Noor’s baklava going to relief efforts in Gaza, and children running around and making art, we experience a taste of wholeness amidst the heartbreak of the world. Fitting for a Shabbat afternoon.
Several weeks after the Peace Meal, I receive a text from Mariam:
I’ve been thinking a lot about radical hospitality. And I came to this conclusion, that hospitality is an obligation, but radical hospitality is a choice. It’s the choice to invite someone in for no other reason than that you can. And what makes it radical, is that it’s the antithesis of being transactional. So for people that understand the world through the lens of transaction, radical hospitality can only be seen as a threat.
In the shadow of war in Iran, continued genocide in Gaza, horrific acts of U.S. state violence at home and abroad, I keep returning to the memory of what happened on Valentine’s Day at Nahalat Shalom (which, translated from Hebrew, means “inheritance of peace”). Radical hospitality, because we can. This is what love looks like.
It’s important to keep an archive of memories that remind us of the agency we have to defy empire’s cruel attempts to divide us. I continue to learn from the Peace Meal—and I take heart in knowing that as extraordinary as it felt, it was, in many ways, quite simple. This is something we can simply choose to do: to create spaces of beauty and radical hospitality for friends and neighbors who don’t often hear one another’s stories; to dwell together in a sanctuary of loving presence; and to make agreements to continue to accompany one through whatever may lie ahead.
We can’t take it all on. But, the Peace Meal reminds me, in the places we make home and in our circles of influence, we can become active co-creators of peace, and of the conditions that make the miraculous a little more possible.
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With gratitude to Rabbi Lynn for teachings; members of Shomeret Shalom—and especially our NM crew (Emet, Yesh, David, Leah, Hector, Penny, Hershel, Robin, Dominika), for being in study and practice together; Mariam and everyone who shared at the event with such generosity of spirit and trust—and Serach for sharing notes from the speakers; and Esteban, Marciel, and all who keep Nahalat Shalom a refuge for peace. Thank you.
Love this, Adam. Beautifully expressed. A footnote: Grandmother Lanesaan Moonwalker's mother was also Jewish, from Russia.